by Gavin Lyall
Ranklin nodded. A year ago, he hadn’t been in this business, and his own problems were blotting out any interest in naval doings anyway.
Alerion went on: “The thinking goes that now Russia’s our ally, she’s no threat to India so there’ll be no need for quick reinforcement out there. Meanwhile, von Tirpitz is certainly building a damn great fleet on our own doorstep and that has to be the Navy’s greatest concern.”
Dagner said thoughtfully: “But it does seem to mean that the Italian and Austrian navies, if they combined, would control the eastern end of the Med. And the route to Suez.”
“Technically, Italy’s already allied with both Austria and Germany in the Triple Alliance, but I doubt that means much. Italy’s bound to join in a major war, out of sheer pride at becoming a new European Power – but who’s going to pay the bill? That’s Giolitti’s problem; he’s been their Prime Minister, on and off, for twenty years and it looks as if he’ll get back at the November elections. And he’s a rogue but no fool, and knows his best policy is to wait and see who’ll pay Italy the biggest bribe to take sides. And his worst fear is his own fanatics pushing him into a war with France or Austria – or even us – out of nationalist pride and without bribes.”
“But meanwhile,” Dagner reminded him, “the route to India . . .”
“I think we’re realising that we can’t be powerful everywhere. We have to leave some things to diplomacy – and your Bureau, of course,” Alerion added politely.
11
While Dagner escorted Sir Caspar out, Ranklin checked the room over for any papers that might have got left behind, and called down by voicepipe for someone to clear away the coffee tray. Then went upstairs.
Dagner was back at the littered work-table; he looked up with a thin smile. “What did you make of Sir Caspar?”
“Can’t say I followed everything he said,” Ranklin said tactfully. “But most seemed to be sound, if cynical, sense.”
“Quite. And he confirmed what I heard last night about the naval situation in the Med. Perhaps you gathered that it was a sort of reunion of old India hands? – we even got Lord Curzon to drop in . . .” Of course: Curzon had been Viceroy of India when Dagner had won his DSO, had probably pinned it on him. It must have been Curzon’s Rolls-Royce Ranklin had seen at the Tower last night. “They were quite cut up about it all.”
“Understandably,” Ranklin felt he should say.
“And it ties up with something Senator Falcone was telling me yesterday afternoon.” He pulled out his watch. “Would you care to hear about it over lunch downstairs?”
“Of course.” Ranklin hadn’t been sure he was going to hear what the Senator had said – nor that he really wanted to. The less he was involved in office strategies, apart from the training programme, the more free he’d be to get abroad again. Hiding O’Gilroy away down at Brooklands could only be a temporary measure.
The tables in the dark-panelled restaurant on the ground floor were widely spaced, and the lunchtime crowd had thinned out, so they were safe from being overheard. Even so, Dagner switched to Indian reminiscences whenever a waiter came near.
“How au fait are you with naval matters?” he began.
“A pure landlubber,” Ranklin said promptly. “As I say, we don’t usually touch on such things.”
“It all seems to begin seven years ago when we launched HMS Dreadnought, which made every other battleship in the world – our own included – out of date. Since then, everybody’s been building their own versions.” He shot his cuff and consulted some figures he’d pencilled on it. “We’ve now got eighteen, plus eight battle-cruisers which are faster but thinner-skinned. And of those, according to Whitaker’s – something anybody can look up – only three are in the Mediterranean. And the French, who are supposed to be guarding the Med, have only two dreadnoughts anywhere. Against that, the Italians already have four and the Austrians two and are building two more. So, on paper, we and the French are already outnumbered down there and it could soon be worse. Why are we happy with that? – I thought the Navy was there to protect our Empire and trade.”
Ranklin hadn’t seen Dagner so positive, almost aggressive, before. He just had time to murmur: “The German fleet in the North Sea . . .” before their soup arrived.
When they were alone again, Dagner said: “Quite. But the matter might be a little more urgent that most people suppose . . . Because what Senator Falcone came to tell our Foreign Office people was that, three months ago, the Italian Foreign Minister signed a secret treaty with Austria putting the Italian fleet under Austrian command in the event of a war. So we would be facing a unified fleet.”
Dagner’s quiet tone seemed aimed at understating this news and, by implication, emphasising it. So Ranklin put down his soup spoon and frowned. Then asked: “Has he any proof of this treaty?”
“That’s what the Foreign Office asked him – not too tactfully, I understand. No, he hasn’t. But he hopes to get a copy of the treaty before too long. Or so he says. So the FO suggested he come back when he’d got that. He then – mistakenly, I think – offered them a deal.”
Ranklin winced, imagining the sudden Ice Age that would have visited King Charles Street. One did not offer the British Foreign Office deals.
“Exactly,” Dagner smiled. “That’s why he turned to us.”
“He’d turned to us before he saw the FO. Though perhaps he guessed what sort of reception he’d get there.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s very much an Italian nationalist who hates the idea of subservience to Austria. I find that reassuring, that one can understand his motives.” He saw Ranklin’s dubious look and smiled. “No, Captain, I’m not making the mistake of thinking because we agree with the Senator on one thing, he must be really just an Englishman with a funny accent. I’m sure that, quite apart from his nationalism, his own political ambitions are mixed up in this. We’ll have to watch out for that—Did you ever hear about Hodson, the chap who actually set up Hodson’s Horse?” That was for the waiter taking away their soup plates. And he did it so quickly that Ranklin never got to hear about Hodson.
“Anyway,” Dagner resumed, “what he’s offering is to prompt a strike in the shipyard at Trieste that’s building most of the Austrian dreadnoughts.”
“Oh.” Ranklin couldn’t think how to react. “Er . . . just like that?”
“I didn’t ask how.” Dagner gave him a reproving look. “And I doubt I’d understand anyway: I know almost nothing about industry. But I think we must accept that he does; that’s how he made his money. And he claims strong family connections with Trieste – where most of the shipyard workers are also Italian. Building warships for Austria that could be used against Italy – one can see an inflammatory argument there. He also mentioned Oberdan – have you heard of him?”
Ranklin just shook his head, since the waiter was delivering their main course. He couldn’t remember what he’d ordered but it turned out to be the rump steak with oyster sauce. He felt he had to justify it by pointing out: “With one thing and another, I didn’t get any real dinner last night.”
Dagner nodded and consulted his cuff again. “I’ve verified Oberdan, at least. He was an Italian nationalist but citizen of Austria who got hanged by the authorities in Trieste back in 1882, at about this time of year. Apparently he’s become a martyr, a useful name to shout at riots. And that’s what the Senator hopes for: not just a strike but a riot with the workers destroying the shipyard machinery in an outburst of Luddism.”
“Sabotage,” Ranklin muttered, but not really listening to himself because he felt this was either an opium dream or very deep water.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. Sabotage. New slang from the French railway strike last year, when they tore up the sleepers, that the French call ‘sabots’. Wooden shoes.”
“Sabotage.” Dagner savoured the word. “Thank you. So, such things can happen.” He ate quietly for a while. Then: “I find that rather terrifying – e
ven that such a word has appeared in our language. We talked of Secret Weapons the other day, but this could trump the lot.”
Ranklin had long believed that any talk of bloody-minded, bone-idle, money-grubbing civilian workers should be a banned in Army messes, so wasn’t going to get involved. Instead: “You said the Senator was offering a deal: what does he want from us?”
“Help with armaments. He’s not just interested in naval affairs, but in improving the Italian Army as well.”
“Money?”
“Oh no, no.”
“That’s usually all it takes. I don’t believe there are any restrictions on the export of arms.” He had wondered if Dagner, fresh from the Khyber Pass where selling even a rifle to a tribesman was probably a hanging offence, realised how easy the rest of the world found it to buy British battleships, French aeroplanes, German cannon, no matter who you were. All you needed was hard cash.
But Dagner seemed to appreciate this already. “He’s just one man, rich but still not the Italian Government, and he thinks we could help in cutting red tape, speeding things up. And one thing he’s looking for is an aeroplane – to replace the one he thought he was going to buy in Brussels.”
Ranklin pushed back his plate, feeling that this was more his size. No longer heady talk of secret treaties and shipyard riots, just buying an aeroplane. “We need O’Gilroy. He was going to take the Senator to Brooklands this weekend.”
“I know. But since he’s there already, I wonder if you felt like escorting the Senator down there tomorrow?”
Ranklin thought for a moment, then asked: “Who am I?”
Dagner smiled. “Somebody from the War Office who’s just been posted to the Flying Corps staff and is trying to get his eye in – so you don’t have to know anything, just seem eager to learn.”
But even that, Ranklin reckoned, showed a remarkable trust in his acting skills. And it hadn’t been how he’d planned this Saturday, but —“Actually, Mrs Finn has a brother who’s involved in aeronautics there.
“By all means make it a day out. Other people are always the best disguise. And do light a cigarette, I’m not having any pudding.”
Dagner himself didn’t seem to have any habits: he didn’t smoke, didn’t fiddle with his knife and fork . . . Probably he saw such things as elements of disguise; Ranklin had no doubt he could appear a confirmed smoker or cutlery-fiddler at will, but kept his real self stripped of any compulsions. The Complete Professional. What was he like at home? – but then Ranklin remembered that with his wife dead, there was no home . . .
“Happy to go,” he mumbled, feeling guilty about even knowing that about Dagner. He lit his cigarette. “Then are we going ahead on this . . . this ‘deal’?”
“We can’t change the Admiralty’s – and presumably the Cabinet’s – mind about withdrawing protection from the India route. But that matters less if Austria’s new dreadnoughts are delayed.”
“Or if,” Ranklin said thoughtfully, “a shipyard riot gets out of hand, Austrian troops open fire on Italian workers . . .”
“And there’s bad blood between Italy and Austria. Yes, I’d rest easy with that – particularly since our own part is so much in the background that it won’t be suspected.”
“You don’t feel it comes a bit close to policy-making?”
Dagner began to look stern, then decided not to and spoke gently, almost as if explaining to a child. “But doesn’t the policy already exist? It was to set up our Bureau to further Britain’s interests by secret means. Sooner or later – clearly later, in Britain’s case – every government realises it needs such a service to do things it cannot be caught doing itself. Politicians want to be able to say truthfully ‘We didn’t know, we didn’t order this’ while being glad it’s been done. Whether that makes their business cleaner than ours, I won’t presume to judge. It certainly makes ours dirty, and we have to face up to that. But we have been given a mission, Captain, a mission, not a sinecure.”
Back upstairs, Ranklin tried to raise Corinna by telephone, first at her flat, then at Sherring’s City office. He caught her there, sounding brisk and business-like.
“About tomorrow,” he began hesitantly, “I’m afraid I’ve got to escort an Italian senator down to Brooklands. He’s hoping to find an aeroplane—”
“Introduce him to Andrew, then,” she said promptly.
“Thank you. Another thing, O’Gilroy’s also down there, to learn to fly—”
Her laughter nearly fused the instrument to his ear. “Conall? Learning to fly? Has he gone crazy about airplanes, too?”
“You know him . . .”
“Who’s teaching him?”
“That’s my next question: can he ask Andrew who to go to?”
“Of course. I’m not having Conall’s neck broken by anyone but the best. I’ll telegraph Andrew right away.” There was a crackling silence, then: “Who’s this senator?”
“A Signor Falcone from Turin. Something big in textile machinery over there, big enough to be staying at the Ritz . . .” He held his breath, waiting to see if she’d take the bait.
“Is that so?” she said. “I wouldn’t mind hearing something about the Italian textile business . . . and seeing Conall again. Would I be welcome? I could bring the automobile and save you having to introduce yourself to Andrew as the man who’s wronging his sister.”
Ranklin stared at the earpiece as if it had become a snake. The line from here to the City was probably loaded with eavesdropping telephone girls; certainly one in his own outer office.
Mind, it was quite possible that that was why Corinna had said such a thing.
“Most welcome,” he said weakly. “Could we say ten o’clock at the Ritz?”
After he had hung up, he wondered if he shouldn’t have said something about the Senator being the target for some assassin. But that certainly wasn’t for the eavesdroppers. And the Senator was under Scotland Yard’s protection, wasn’t he?
12
Only, when he met Senator Falcone ten minutes before Corinna was due, it turned out that he wasn’t.
“In England,” the Senator said jovially, “I am sure there is no problem. After they were sure I get alive to the Foreign Office, they were not much interested, and though I am sure your policemen are as wonderful as everyone says, they are still policemen. It is being followed by a strange dog.”
Which told Ranklin little more than that Falcone’s English was at least adequate. That apart, he seemed a beefy, friendly man whose clothes were . . . well, a little natty. His suit was a shade too light, his necktie a bit too cheerful and the cloth cap didn’t belong until Ranklin realised the Senator was hoping to be offered a flight and would then wear the cap backwards, as aviators in photographs always seemed to. He was wearing a cap himself, but only because it went with his tweed suit and he reckoned that an aerodrome equated to a country race-course. He certainly didn’t plan to risk meeting his God with his headgear back to front.
Then Corinna appeared in the back of a chauffeur-driven Daimler. It was a sunny day, but the car had a very upright Pullman body and the most they could do was open all the windows. It was her father Reynard’s car, and he obviously didn’t think the English summer happened often enough to justify a folding hood. Ranklin sat on a pull-down seat opposite Corinna and Falcone, who was carrying a large sealed envelope he had picked up at the hotel desk but not bothered to open yet.
Corinna was talkative and smiley, as she instinctively was with strangers. “You know we’re going to the wrong place?” she said as they rolled down Park Lane. “They’re having a big aerial race up at Hendon so all the action’s going to be there.”
“That is why I wish to go to Brooklands, Falcone” answered, doing some toothy smiling of his own. “It will be more quiet there without all the peasants who wish only to see somebody killed. There is more time to talk with true aeronauts.”
“I’d guess most of them will be at Hendon, too, but at least you can meet my brother. I know he�
��ll be at Brooklands.”
“Yes, Captain Ranklin is telling me your brother – Andrew, I think? – is building his own aeroplane.”
“It’s finished and flying by now, but not built by himself. It was done by proper craftsmen, but to his own design. What else did Captain Ranklin tell you?”
The emphasis was to warn Ranklin that he’d forgotten to tell her what part he was playing that day, a basic mistake he should have grown out of.
This wasn’t the first time he had been to Brooklands, a banked motor-racing track built by a rich landowner to promote British motoring and please his motor-mad young wife. Ranklin had gone once to watch a motor-race, and then with a brother officer who wanted to test his new motor-car on the banking. But it was only in the last few years that aviators had begun to use the space enclosed by the track as a flying field, sharing it with a sewage farm into which they apparently crashed so regularly that a special hosing-down hut had been added.
They drove in through a tunnel under the banking on the north side and then down beside the finishing straight to the ‘aviation village’ at the south end. This was a collection of wooden buildings and a long terrace of identical sheds backing onto the banking of the motor track. Nobody seemed to be flying, but there were half a dozen aeroplanes of various shapes being tinkered with in front of the sheds. Ranklin later learnt that by mid-morning the day was already nearly half over, the windless hours around dawn and dusk being the safest time for novice pilots and unproven aeroplanes.
Corinna seemed to know her way around and, inevitably, to be known by almost everybody. She replied cheerily to several men in shirt-sleeves and oil smudges (whose names, Ranklin guessed, she couldn’t remember) as she led the way to the Blue Bird Restaurant, a glassed conservatory in front of one of the workshops. They sat down at an outside table and Ranklin ordered coffee.
Falcone sat itchily, obviously longing to get closer to the aeroplanes, but Corinna smiled reassuringly and said: “Andrew’ll show you around and introduce you to people.”